Giorni Dispari
by Cadiliniel
Summary: It's Finduilas' birthday and Denethor and the boys go visit her.


Six feet could be heard echoing down the corridor. "Shh, boys, don't run. Your little feet make more noise than you think!"

"Sorry, father!"

Denethor caught up with his two young sons. Faramir was five now and Boromir had just turned ten years old. "It'll only anger the guards," Denethor added, in as light a tone as he could manage, to make his previous remark sounds less like he was reprimanding the boys.

"How long is it until _your_ birthday, father?" Faramir enquired.

"Oh, a while yet son. Don't pick at those."

Faramir guiltly stopped playing with the bunch of flowers in his hand. "And how old is mother today?"

Denethor grimaced slightly. "Thirty-nine."

"Is that old?"

"Not at all, son. In fact, it's quite young for one of her bloodline." Denethor glanced at his son. "Not as young as you or Boromir, of course."

"We've got decades upon decades left," Boromir commented, with a twinge of moodiness in his voice. He'd been quiet all day.

"That's right, Boromir. The two of you will far outlive me, I have no doubt of that."

"Are you old, father?" Faramir's curiosity returned.

"Well…yes, I suppose. But old age doesn't make any less of a man unless he lets it get the better of him."

"I don't think you're that old," Faramir interjected.

Denethor smirked. "Thank you, Faramir."

They at last came to a door at the end of the long corridor. He pushed open the heavy door in front of them. "In you go." He let his sons through as he held the door open, before passing through himself.

Faramir ran. "Happy Birthday, mother!" Boromir walked up behind him, a flickering smile on his face. Faramir, in his excitement, dropped the flowers to the ground. "I bet you're going to have a wonderful day today, mother! I think you'll have lots to eat and lots of nice things to drink and lots of presents…" Faramir kept talking excitedly to his mother.

Boromir stood by, quite quietly. Denethor put a hand on his son's shoulder and knelt beside him. He examined his son's face for a moment. There was a look of confusion on his young features. Denethor was careful to keep his voice as low as possible, for fear anyone should hear. "You don't have to stay here, if it's too difficult. She won't be upset." Boromir looked at his father for a second, before he turned to his brother.

"Faramir."   
The younger boy turned to him. "What is it, Boromir?"

"Come with me to see grandfather. You can speak to mother again afterwards."

"Oh, very well. I shan't be long, mother!" Boromir took Faramir's hand and led him along another corridor.

Denethor picked up the flowers that Faramir had dropped and placed them on the hands of his wife's effigy. "Happy Birthday, my swan." He ran a longing hand along her marble cheek. Eight months had passed since Finduilas had died, but the memory was still very close. Faramir seemed to be coping astoundingly well, even though it was he who in the first few days would not stop crying. Boromir did not seem to be coping so well, he had been brooding ever since, though he seemed to be improving now.

As for Denethor himself, the dark circles beneath his eyes and the additional white hairs on his head were the only signs of his ongoing and prolonged grief. All his aides seemed to think he had recovered from his wife's death marvellously and so let him get on with all his worked as he need. He preferred it that way. If he kept his mind occupied, if he kept himself busy there would be less time to contemplate and fall too deeply into a grief that bubbled dangerously close to the surface. He needed his routine in order to keep it from spilling over.

He stared at the likeness of his wife's face. She was so beautiful. He thought to himself that now, she would never grow old – she would forever be young and beautiful. He would never find out if she would have been just as beautiful in her old age, though he was quite sure that she would have been. If her illness had failed to take her beauty, then old age wouldn't have done it. Denethor leant over the tomb and placed a kiss on his wife's forehead, the marble cold against his lips. He needed to be with his sons now and not alone in the cold prescence of his lost love.


End file.
